


Conjugating Latin Verbs

by jazzjo



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Art, F/F, Future, Painting, arting, au-ish, jamie the painter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2309633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzjo/pseuds/jazzjo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What were they doing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conjugating Latin Verbs

 

“Do you think he knows about us, then, my dear?” Jamie’s eyes glinted with something akin to an enigma, reaching the hand that was not occupied with a paintbrush over to reach for the woman in the doorway.

 

She heard a scoff, lighthearted and bordering on a laugh, then the lingerings of an immigrant family upbringing in Queens.

 

“No, of course not. He thinks we conjugate Latin verbs; what else could we be doing?”

 

“Now, Joan there’s no need to mock me with movie references you think I will not understand.”

 

The dark haired woman sat down next to her, perched on the stool that had found its home next to Jamie’s at her easel. Peering at Jamie’s latest work - of course, it wasn’t an original - Joan pointed out a flaw, her voice affirmed and sure, though still giving the artist her due.

 

“The light isn’t hitting the water quite right. Colours are a little too dark on the right and glaring on the right. Perhaps it needs a middle ground.” 

 

Of course, that was what the painting was missing. But, that aside, Joan was here and these were the only times that Jamie (not Moriarty, not to her, not anymore) allowed herself to indulge in originals. They were worthless to her in a world already so filled with beautiful, astonishing art. There was enough beauty that could be replicated by her finesse, without her having to add her own tinge of darkness to an original that would have no place in the world that already existed in art. 

 

Joan, having long since figured out the correlation between Jamie’s choice of work and her company, had already carefully shifted one of her latest originals, the third since the portrait that had admittedly been a little too creepy. The paintbrush in Jamie’s hand was light, weighted only at its tip with the pigment that it was tasked to apply to a canvas still half blank. The hand in hers, however, was warm and heavy. The kind of heavy that Jamie had come to accept, and to yearn when it was light. Joan herself had been one of nimble, precise fingers, and her years away from surgery hadn’t changed that too much, especially when she did not shake in fear of doing harm where she was meant to heal. A small craft carving knife was acquiesced in her hand, fingers instinctively curled around it like a scalpel. She worked on where the paint had already dried, at least halfway through. The hand in hers was slightly cold, fingers deftly, firmly holding on. 

 

“Conjugating Latin verbs or painting anything but Old Masters, who knows?” the orderly words fell out of her slanted smile in the stencil that her accent always provided. 

 

“Well, I don’t think Sherlock particularly wants to think about the fact that his partner and his ex (who he thought, and fully believed, was dead for a long while) are spending time together.” Joan’s own accent fumbled slightly around the name in a way that hers or his own never would, “He would rather think I was here on some semblance of official terms than admit to himself that though you may not be the Irene Adler he remembers, you aren’t Moriarty, or M. Not entirely.” 

“You sound rather sure of that,” Her voice curled upwards in it’s cadence, almost questioning the faith the woman had in her, “How can you be sure that I am not the killer, the coldblooded assassin?”

 

“Well, you haven’t tried to murder me yet, have you?”

 

Jamie’s teeth parted, her hand stilling over the painting for a moment. Then Joan cut in before the words even left her lips.

 

“Don’t say it’s because I intrigue you. Sure, that might have been part of it, but goodness knows you would have gotten bored of me within weeks. It’s been years. Unless you have some semblance of humanity under that exterior you are so hell bent on showing the whole world, including, or perhaps especially, Sherlock, you would have lost interest and killed me a damn long time ago.”

 

Jamie started again, her tongue darting out to wet her dry lips. The air in the studio was a tad too dry for human inhabitation. Just as the first syllable was uttered, Joan’s phone cut through the almost-silence. For god’s sake, Jamie hoped it wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, or she would have to take off his head. 

 

“Hello?”

 

Joan looked on, first in amusement at Jamie’s impatience at the fact that she had been interrupted yet again, then in astonishment at the words that began to tumble out of her mouth at a pace too quick for it to even be considered vaguely foreign.

 

“阿姨您好，是的，我是珏恩的朋友。沒有啊，我們不是在做什麼重要的事情，只是在共軛拉丁動詞罷了。您要跟她說說話嗎？” 

 

“How the hell do you know what ‘conjugate’ is in Mandarin? Even I don’t know that, and I grew up on the language.”

 

“Well, Joan, for one, it really wasn’t all that hard to learn that phrase, and growing up on the language does not automatically grant you access to every one of its words.”

 

“Fine, can we stop mocking my Chinese school Mandarin now. Get back to painting; I’m going to finish up the conversation with who I am supposing is my mother.”

 

Joan took the call in the next room, a little ways away from where Jamie was painting a mirror of a river, or a pond. She couldn’t deny that she still thought about going back to that life sometimes, the life where she almost undoubtedly never had complete control, but was at least able to keep up the pretence of being entirely in control of her operations. She had no control with Joan; she was too much of a mystery, too equally matched with Jamie for Jamie to even think about playing games that would have a chance of harming her. Joan was the one who was keeping her here, in a studio apartment, painting both originals and replicas. Staying as much on this side of the law as someone named Jamie Moriarty would ever be able to stay, and Joan appreciated the effort. 

 

“She asks why my Mandarin isn’t half as fluent as yours. I told her you were an international terrorist who got lots of practise. I think she nearly threw the chopper she was using at Oren; I heard him squawk in the background. She’ll probably want to meet you, seeing as you’ve impressed her with your Chinese, so be prepared.”

 

Jamie whipped around in a way so akin to how she had first met Joan, she wasn’t sure if it was the sudden movement or the deja vu that caused her momentary vertigo. Her lips curled into her lopsided smile, and she handed the craft knife back to Joan wordlessly. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This has been my first attempt at Joaniarty that has been stuck in my head and bugging me for days on end. There aren't quite enough fics for this pairing so this has been my humble addition. Hope you've enjoyed it, and lasted this far:)


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